Remembering ... my brother
My brother was a soldier, he went to war.
He fought proudly for Queen and country.
My brother was a soldier.
His life was a war.
I used to pretend that
my brother was not a soldier
so I could sleep
every day as
they bite and tear at hearts and
spit them out on barren ground.
War is hatred wrapped in metal.
War is a monster under the bed.
War is a thief ... of lives, dreams and a future.
I remember when my brother was a soldier.
airmail letters bore whispers of hopes
as they thudded on the doormat.
The brief visits home held
unspoken dreams and fears distant
at the sharp point of the invisible bayonet -
all family eyes saw the pain
as he shone his
boots to remove the past.
There is no peace
when your brother is a soldier,
there is no peace
when familial familiarity shrivels
in the face of unspoken horrors.
War diminishes lives.
Yet, I remember
that my brother was a soldier,
proud and strong,
loyal and true.
that my brother
always came back,
sometimes without his shadow ...
other brothers did not return.
Today, I remember
all the soldiers
who are my other brothers.
The brothers who are like moths
drawn to the flame of war
that scorches their souls,
that steals their eternal youth.
© Marjorie H Morgan 2011